Bob Marley is to me today something that the Beatles were when I was younger: a touchstone. Less apt to create a cosmic run than fleet fingered Hendrix, more disciplined than 99 percent of rock stars. I watch this acoustic Essex House tape, a day before he collapsed jogging through Central Park and was diagnosed with cancer of the brain, lung, and stomach. He knew that something was wrong and was working, through stubborn will alone, to create something of meaning, a legacy.

The tape goes through about six acoustic versions of Redemption Song, each one a new articulation and after that moves on to one of my all-time favorites, an acoustic Coming In From the Cold. I first saw this at the Bob Museum in Kingston and it sent shivers.

Would you ever let the system make you kill your brother, man?No dread no.Would you let them get on top your head again?No dread no.

My admiration of Marley tempered by six memorable weeks spent in Jamaica, realizing the profound legacy he left, which lingers to this day and mitigates an undercurrent of violence.

I highly recommend two concerts that I have just about worn out the past month. 1975 Quiet Knight Club in Chicago and 1973 Leeds. I'll get to telling my story about staying with rastas in Jamaica someday. Cold ground was my bed last night and rock my pillow too.